Progression

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by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

To each progressive soul there comes a day
   When all things that have pleased and satisfied
Grow flavourless, the springs of joy seem dried.
   No more the waters of youth’s fountains play;
Yet out of reach, tiptoeing as they may,
   The more mature and higher pleasures hide.
Life, like a careless nurse, fails to provide
   New toys for those the soul has cast away.

Upon a strange land’s border all alone,
   Awhile it stands dismayed and desolate.
Nude too, since its old garments are outgrown;
   Till clothed with strength befitting its estate,
It grasps at length those raptures that are known
   To souls who learn to labour, and to wait.

from Poems of Experience by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1917)

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